


Shape

by Saccharine_Ghosts



Series: Requests [4]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blake's Potty Mouth, Drabble, Gen, General Murkoff Fuckery, Mental Instability, Murkoff Corporation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Shot, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 21:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saccharine_Ghosts/pseuds/Saccharine_Ghosts
Summary: “Mr. Langermann, this is my final warning.”That was his name, right? No. No, it was a name he took, a name he went by, but it wasn’t his. There was one name that didn’t change, one that he had since birth, but Langermann was something he earned, something he got from somebody else.“Ethan, can you get Pauline in here?”Was that his name? Ethan? It sounded familiar, but he didn’t think it was his. Did he have a name? Did he have a life outside of his room? Maybe he didn’t. There didn’t seem to be a beginning or an end in sight, just the room and his thoughts.





	Shape

**Author's Note:**

> From the anonymous Tumblr request for "Blake and a day at the Murkoff Facilities" and since we all know Pauline was the one who gave the order, this one goes out to my actual mom, Pauline Glick. ***finger guns***
> 
> Nice.

“It would be just dandy if you would cooperate.” 

The air around them was stale, like they were underground or sealed off. Everything smelt and tasted of mildew and grime, but it was strangely sterile; or maybe not sterile, just cold. 

“Really Mr. Langermann, everything would go so much smoother if you’d just let me help you.”

The water that fell from the bucket was icy, and just as stagnant and putrid as the rest of the room. He was cold, so goddamn cold, but there was nothing in the world that could bring him back in that moment. 

“Mr. Langermann, this is my final warning.” 

That was his name, right? No. No, it was a name he took, a name he went by, but it wasn’t his. There was one name that didn’t change, one that he had since birth, but Langermann was something he earned, something he got from somebody else. 

“Ethan, can you get Ms. Glick in here?” 

Was that his name? Ethan? It sounded familiar, but he didn’t think it was his. Did he have a name? Did he have a life outside of his room? Maybe he didn’t. There didn’t seem to be a beginning or an end in sight, just the room and his thoughts. 

Was he even a man? He thought so. Maybe it was his brain filling in the blanks. He felt like a man, but he couldn’t help but feel that maybe Langermann came from a marriage. Did he take his spouse’s last name? Did he or she know who he was? 

There were too many questions, but too few answers, and each stretch for one felt like a hot brand to a different part of his brain. 

“Mr. Langermann,” spoke a new voice, much smoother and higher than the man who had thrown the water on his head. A woman, perhaps, or maybe his brain was just playing tricks. “I know you’re a little down in the dumps, but we think you might have some information we need, so you’re going to have to spill the beans before we turn your brain into egg salad.” 

Was it not already? What more could they do? He couldn’t remember his name, his spouse’s face, the city he lived in, what difference would it make? 

“Listen, Mr. Blake Langermann,” the woman clicked her tongue, "Sounds fake, but okay-" 

So that was his name. Blake, spoken like a tiresome phrase she had heard one too many times. Blake, a name derived from pale skin, or maybe it was dark, he did not know the answer. Blake, a name from his grandfather who beat him as a child for playing too rough and tracking mud on the carpet; a name he couldn’t quite shake like his surname.

“You’re pretty, for a man, but I’m not about to touch you with anything less than a hazmat suit on. You’re in rough shape, but we need this information so we can start filing your paperwork and put Lynn’s body to rest.” 

His eyes raised slightly, still unseeing and unblinking, but focused on the general vicinity of Glick's face. 

“You know, your wife, Lynn Langermann?” 

He nodded slowly, unfeeling of the ache and pull that throbbed in his back after being prone and tied for so long. 

“She’s dead. I'm sure I'd be sorry if I knew her, Langermann, but she didn’t make it. You have to help yourself now, so what do you remember?” 

Blake could picture dirty blonde hair, a set of light brown eyes that matched, but he couldn’t really see her so clearly. Vague memories of ceremonies, a graduation, a class presentation here and there, people who may or may not have been in-laws. Nothing was clear, but it was becoming more so. 

“Looking a bit more lucid. You keep saying a name in your sleep; Jessica. Do you know who that is?” 

Suddenly a face flashed before his. Dark brown hair, pale skin, a youthful glow tainted by wandering hands, and blood - blood everywhere - blood on her porcelain skin, on the stairs, slicking the halls and making running away impossible. It was behind him now, what he was running from. If only he could turn his head, just an inch, maybe he would see what it was. 

“My… friend.” 

“There’s a good boy,” she tapped her fingers on the notebook in her lap. “Lighten up, we’re not done here. What were you and your wife doing in Arizona? You come all this way from Jersey just to see the canyon?” 

If the memories he could faintly see were, in fact, his own, then him and Lynn had been following a lead given to them by their co-worker. There was a flight to Tucson, then a helicopter then… darkness; just inky blackness that faded in and out of Jessica’s broken face. 

“Work,” he sputtered, voice hoarse from disuse and, no doubt, the new diseases overbearing his system. 

“You’re a journalist, correct?” 

Blake shook his head, greasy black hair falling in front of his dead eyes and blocking his view of the woman called Glick. 

“Lynn was… I’m just the camera guy.” 

“Ah, she wore the pants,” the brunette stepped forward and examined his face, “Makes sense. How it should be, anyway.” 

“You going to kill me?” he asked, unsure if he really sounded like he cared or not. 

“Mr. Langermann-“ 

“Just call me Blake, please,” finally, whether it was from exhaustion or pure indifference to his predicament, his head fell back between his shoulders. “I think we’ve passed formalities here.” 

She let out a small bark of a laugh, “Alrighty then, Blake, finally getting some backbone, I can admire that. You're not allowed to call me Pauline though, I feel like that would be getting a little too familiar. Anyway, if we kill you there may be an investigation, and we really don’t want that. So much hassle, so much clean up. Odds are you’ll tell us what we need, we’ll pump you so full of drugs you’ll walk like your balls are raw, then we’ll bring in a next of kin to sign you off to one of our psychiatric branches. You’re strong, you look like you’d be good for experiments.” 

For the first time since coming to, Blake laughed, or made a sound that could have been mistaken for a laugh. “No next of kin… please… just kill me.” 

“Then Mrs. Langermann’s family.” 

“Lynn’s parents hate me!” he shook his head, “Just do it, dammit, get this the fuck over with!” 

Pauline’s mouth pursed, looking rather bemused. She took another calculated step towards him, almost daring him to speak again. 

“Who told you about the case with the pregnant woman?” 

“I’m not answering, so do it! Fucking kill me! I don’t care how, just fucking do it!” 

“Blake, I won’t ask again. Who did you hear about this from?” 

With that, the raven-haired man recoiled and spat, blood and saliva landing directly on the lapel of the agent’s coat.

“Fuck you!” he yelled, voice catching and breaking with every syllable. “Fuck you motherfuckers, and your fucking agendas! I’m not a part of this!” 

“Whether you like it or not,” the agent ground out, stepping forward to grip the man’s sweat stained locks and slam his head back into the metal of the seat, “You’re a part of this now, you sick, sick little fucker. We own you; mind, body, and soul. From now on you don’t eat, sleep, or shit without asking permission, is that clear?”

Through blood stained-teeth and putrid breath, Blake managed a smile, green eyes open just wide enough to catch Pauline’s auburn glare. “Go… to… hell…” 

“Looks like you’ve been through enough for the both of us.” She let go of him, wiping her hands on the pants of her suit. “Miller, I want enough chlordiazepoxide in him to kill a calf so we can move him. Christmas came early apparently, and I think Blaire would appreciate the sentiment.” 

All Blake could do was watch her leave, calm and collected and absolutely cold. He wondered what somebody had to go through in order to become that detatched from the world around you. 

“Oh,” she called again, “and bring a bag for his head.” 

Pauline turned to Blake one last time before three new men rushed in, brandishing needles and syringes with all sorts of fluid. 

“Don’t think he’s much of a swallower.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive criticism and comments are welcomed and encouraged!
> 
> If you have a request or would like to find me on other social media, my Tumblr is **milesupy0urs.tumblr.com** and I can be contacted there through DM or ask box.  
>  **(CW: Blog contains NSFW, extreme violence, gore, and horror.)**


End file.
